


The Talk of Southern Gentlemen

by yuletide_archivist



Category: 1776 (1972)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by Michelle</p><p>Mssrs. Dickinson (PA), Jefferson (VA), Lee (VA), and Rutledge (SC) assemble for drinks, dinner, and casual conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talk of Southern Gentlemen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Chelsey

 

 

"Sir, I will stand for a great many things while in Philadelphia -- _great_ many things. A winter wind that blows the hair off my face _and_ off my horse; a river that sustains nothing _resembling_ life; _one_ respectable tavern and the miserable people usually to be found in it! But I shall not, shall _never_ stand for such a course."

The Southern delegates stared at each other, and then at Jefferson and the longest string of words to have ever left his mouth, then back at each other for some kind of joint response. Finally, Lee reassuringly pat Jefferson on the arm.

"It's okay, Tommy. I'll share the chicken with you. We ain't from so deep in the South that mutton's as good in July as in December."

"More's the pity, sirs, and we regret that we will have to attempt and finish it all ourselves," Rutledge began, then looked at Dickinson with a smirk. "Though if our third of Delaware arrives, we need not fret over feeding leftovers to the tavern dog."

"Dear Neddy, you _are_ a snob," Dickinson said as he laughed uproariously. "Bless every bit of you, I wouldn't change a thing."

"And with your lackluster powers of persuasion, you would never be able to!"

Jefferson and Lee sat opposite Rutledge and Dickinson, with places for the few other delegates who would join them peppered around their table in the City Tavern. Jefferson couldn't believe it, but his eye kept glancing towards the front door, hoping to see Franklin or Adams come by and shut the mouths of the popinjays sitting in front of him. Luckily, Lee was there to keep the little vestige of sanity his wife had renewed in him with her sudden visit sixteen miserably lonely days ago.

"Jefferson, you seem to have drifted off," Rutledge commented. "Tell me, are the rumors true? Was your wife in fair Philadelphia and called on no one but her lord and master?"

Jefferson's finger traced the rim of the glass absentmindedly for a moment before he acknowledged Rutledge's question.

"They are."

Rutledge chortled and looked at Dickinson with some incredulity, then back at Jefferson, who was still staring at his ale (his own recipe was better).

"My wife was quite disappointed in not making her acquaintance -- the ladies here do have so few opportunities for socializing with women of their own class."

"Never mind the fact that my own wife is quite sure you have made her up, Tom," Dickinson said.

"Aw, John," began Lee's protest, but died promptly.

"Truly, does she not sound as a heroine in a piece of ladies' fiction? Reads voraciously -- with and without her husband's recommendations, I should note -- sings, dances, familiar with the classics to a degree that should shame most of the men in Congress -- and with all that, still adores her husband and manages to avoid anything resembling shrewish behavior." 

Jefferson still said nothing, but leaned on his hand and looked at Dickinson as if to say... exactly what his facial expression conveyed: " _And?_ "

"Johnny, I've met the lady and she's no fiction," Lee assured him. "She's as pretty as anything, and all those things and more!"

"Goodness, more! Can a lady be more without falling over!" Rutledge laughed.

"Gentlemen, I will send your good word onto my wife in my next letter," Jefferson interrupted.

Rutledge and Dickinson tried not to slouch in their chairs -- it was no fun when Jefferson refused to be riled up, which was _always_. Rutledge smiled when another topic of conversation, pursuant to the last, came into his mind.

"Do you know who is rather prettier than anyone, and I mean _anyone_ , would have expected?" Rutledge asked. He waited until everyone, Jefferson included, had at least raised an eyebrow his acknowledgment of his question. "Mrs. Adams."

"What?" Dickinson laughed. "When did _you_ meet the _famous_ Mrs. Adams?"

"Dear John, the roads to Boston are open to all -- you shouldn't let Adams think that living in Boston is a great privilege God did not bestow on the rest of us."

"Boston is terrible," Jefferson said as he drank.

"The tomb speaks!" Rutledge exclaimed. 

"Only to comment on Boston and its surprising ability to sustain human life during those ferocious winters," Jefferson replied.

"Ignore him, do tell us more of the _great_ Mrs. Adams," Dickinson urged. "Does she resemble her husband, in temper or in looks?" He paused and added, "Though if she did, perhaps he would understand why only Franklin can stand his company on the best days."

"Yes, those happy rum-soaked days... usually the ones that end in Y, I believe," Rutledge replied.

Even Lee had to laugh at that, and Jefferson tried to hide a smirk behind his mug.

"Mrs. Adams... isn't a terrible chore to look upon," Rutledge continued.

"Say it isn't _so_ ," Dickinson said. "But then how does one explain _Adams_!"

"That is what _I_ would like to know, for here is a woman -- rather, there is a woman. There in Boston. Or where ever their quaint little farm may be, as if it concerns me. Anyway -- _there_ is a woman..."

"Neddy, are you crump-footed?" Dickinson asked.

"Did you just quote from Dr. Franklin's ridiculous book, John?" Rutledge asked. "Or do you endeavor to write your own? Crump-footed indeed."

"Sir, you _clip the King's English_ talking like that," Jefferson said -- then snorted as if to hold back a laugh.

"Smells of an onion was one, wasn't it?" Lee asked.

"God in Heaven, I have forgotten what I wanted to say about Mrs. Adams," Rutledge exclaimed. "It had something to do with her breasts. Let's pretend it was uproariously funny and have another round."

"Tommy here will pay," Lee said. "He seems to have fallen asleep with his pocket open."

"Lee, I knew we didn't bring you out in vain," Dickinson said.

"I am _not_ asleep, dear," Jefferson muttered as he slouched in his chair. "No, there's nothing for you in _that_ pocket."

"Richard, I think you have better leave his pockets alone if you wish to keep your virtue intact," Rutledge said warily. "I'll take this round. And _where_ is our mutton?!"

Jefferson suddenly woke up and hit his hand loudly on the table. "Chicken! It is _too warm_ for mutton!"

"Tom, how you do _talk_ ," Rutledge replied. "Really, one can hardly get a word in with that mouth of -- oh, he's dozed off again. Do we venture into his pockets again, or would that start something we couldn't dare to finish?"

"Neddy, how Oxford of you -- I ask you to remember we're in Philadelphia and that English schoolboy nonsense won't stand here."

"Oh, won't it?"

"Gentlemen, I'll be in the necessaries while you two..." Lee let his sentence trail off as he ran to the back door of the tavern, hoping Jefferson didn't wake up while Rutledge and Dickinson... discussed the habits of English schoolboys.

 


End file.
